


you will not take my future

by arisfocis



Category: Dream SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: (i am forcibly ejected from the ao3 tagging system), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post March 1st stream, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit Reunion, anyways phantommy revenge arc please please pl-, kind of, this isn't that angsty i need my post-lore funnies, tommyinnit is a god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arisfocis/pseuds/arisfocis
Summary: He’d watched, then, trapped in an odd limbo between before and after, as Dream had stood over his dead body, laughing like a maniac, blood on his face and a fucking potato in his hands, and Tommy —He had just stared at Dream, suppressed the shock in favor of just irritation and annoyance.And then the reality began to set in, as he’d been yanked away from the only reality he’d ever known, into —Somewhere else.Tommy hits the ground, hard.“What the fuck,” he grumbles, audibly. “That was awfully rude of whoever decided to fucking do that.”
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 18
Kudos: 169
Collections: Dream SMP Fics (Mainly Tommyinnit (Yeah I'm That Bitch)), Found family to make me feel something, Wilbur and Tommy in the Afterlife





	you will not take my future

**Author's Note:**

> so i told myself there were enough wilbur & tommy reunion fics. that i didn't need to write another one. And Then I Wrote Another One. (the crimeboys brainrot is so real)

Being dead is _so_ weird. 

It’s not like Tommy knew what to expect, of course. But, somehow, this was not it.

It had been fucking _disorienting,_ really, being forced out of his body as he died. The rush of nausea and confusion overwhelmed him almost immediately, lasting for what felt like eternity but in reality had been a few seconds.

He’d watched, then, trapped in an odd limbo between before and after, as Dream had stood over his dead body, laughing like a maniac, blood on his face and a fucking _potato_ in his hands, and Tommy — 

Tommy had felt _so much rage._ About his death, about the way he went out, about who he died to. Not for the justifiable, logical reasons quite yet — instead, it had been irrational and childish and _so fucking Tommy._

He had stared at Dream, suppressed the shock in favor of just irritation and annoyance. _What the fuck. I died at the hands of a fucking raving lunatic. He killed me with a_ potato. _That was the most boring way I could have died,_ he thinks. _What the fucking fuck._

And then the reality began to set in, as he’d been yanked away from the only reality he’d ever known, into — 

Somewhere else.

Tommy hits the ground, hard.

“What the fuck,” he grumbles, audibly. “That was awfully rude of whoever decided to fucking do that,” he continues, voice pitching up into a yell by the end of his sentence. “I wanted to kill that bastard right there.”

_Oh? Really?_

Tommy snaps his mouth shut and falls into a stunned silence.

 _He_ can _shut up,_ the voice says, conversationally. Amused. 

_If I had a sword right now,_ Tommy thinks, _I would kill you._

 _That won’t be necessary,_ the voice echoes.

“Get out of my fucking head, then,” Tommy snaps. “That’s not — none of this is what I wanted. I didn’t want it to end like this.”

He pauses.

“I didn’t want to end like this,” he says, softer, voice breaking.

_I am sorry._

“Fuck off. Nothing you can do, right? I’m just gonna go to heaven, or hell, or whatever the fuck, and you’re just gonna screw off and do whatever you were doing before I died.”

_You would be wrong there, Tommy._

“Yeah?” Tommy demands, sarcastic. “You gonna snap your fingers, grant me three wishes?”

_Is that what you want?_

“I want to kill Dream.”

_You and your brother are eerily similar._

_Wilbur,_ Tommy thinks. _Oh my god. Wilbur._

 _You will see him,_ the voice says. Tommy can’t determine whether it’s supposed to be comforting or ominous. _But you need to speak to me first._

“Okay,” Tommy acquiesces, resentment still coloring his voice. 

_Who are you, Tommy?_

Tommy blinks, bemused. “I’m Tommy.” 

The world is silent.

“I… founded L’manburg with Wilbur,” he continues, unsure, too bewildered to be angry. “He’s my brother. My best friend is Tubbo.” _That one stings._

He speaks, again. “I own— owned,” he corrects himself, “the Big Innit Hotel. I was killed by Dream, in the prison.” He furrows his eyebrows. 

“What the fuck kinda question is that, anyways?” he demands. “How do you expect me to be able to understand that?”

The voice is silent. It’s not gone — Tommy can feel the steadying presence of another _existence_ in this space with him, but — it is not speaking.

“Can I, like, use you as a therapist, instead?” Tommy muses aloud. “Would be a helluva lot more useful than whatever the fuck this is.”

“Anyways,” he continues, not bothering to wait for a response this time, “I personally think it’s very fucked to play mind games with a person who’s just died.” 

_A child, too,_ he adds, petulantly, knowing that the voice can hear. He’s never been particularly fond of the word — it had only ever been used to silence him when he was alive, but now, in this emptiness, he begins to comprehend how utterly _fucked_ it all was. Remembers every last damned thing that had happened to him, and Tubbo, and Ranboo, and the whole lot of them, and wonders how no one thought to simply spare _them_ of it all.

“Am I allowed to haunt Dream?” he asks.

The voice seems to sigh, resigned. _I can give you the next best thing, Tommy,_ it says, and then his surroundings are flooded with light.

“TommyInnit,” Wilbur says. “The patron god of children, of the falsely accused, of revenge. Has a nice ring to it.”

“What the _fuck?!_ ” Tommy shrieks, in response. 

“Hi, Tommy.”

“What the fuck,” Tommy repeats, quieter, more stunned. 

Wilbur snorts. “Imagine how weird it was for me.”

“You — you said _patron god??_ Am I a fucking god now, Wilbur?”

“God… not in the way you're thinking, probably. Not unless you gain literal devotees, which — “ Wilbur laughs “ — didn’t happen to me, for obvious reasons but you, however…” he trails off, giving Tommy an appraising look. “If my little brother became a god before I did, I would be very upset, I think.”

The words “little brother"are ping-ponging around Tommy’s head too fast for him to process much else. _Wilbur’s here. I’m with Wilbur now._ The thought would have scared him, a few weeks ago, but now — 

“I missed you so much,” he croaks out, working past the knot in his throat. “Will, I missed you _so_ much.”

Wilbur’s face crumples rapidly. “Come on, now, Toms, you can’t dump that onto me so fast,” he says, laughing wetly. “I’m supposed to be, like, your metaphorical pillar of support. Your guidance, or whatever.”

He pauses, tilting his head up and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Goddammit,” Wilbur whispers, and then — “Come here,” he beckons, arms open. “Get in here.”

Tommy rushes towards Wilbur, and they stumble, together, with the force of the first contact they make. Wilbur is _real,_ solid and overwhelmingly present in Tommy’s grasp, and he thinks he might just collapse from the shock of it all.

He clutches Wilbur’s coat in his fists and holds _,_ like Wilbur is his lifeline, his salvation, and Wilbur’s arms are warm around him and he still _smells_ like himself and —

Jesus, Tommy’s fully crying now. _Fuck,_ he thinks, face buried into the crook of Wilbur’s neck, _this is fucking embarassing._

“God, Toms,” Wilbur murmurs. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you for a long while still.”

He pulls away, holding Tommy by the shoulders. “Didn’t want to see you for a while, either, but—” he sighs— “it is what it is, isn’t it? We’re still fucking shit up, together, like we always have.”

“That we are, big man,” Tommy says. “I think it is some sort of cosmic joke that I’m the god of _children_ , though _._ Out of everything the universe could have made me.”

Wilbur hums. “You made yourself, Tommy. Just like I did. It wasn’t — it wasn’t ever about other people imposing things on you, just revealing things about yourself that you didn’t know.”

“You’re a dramatic bitch, that’s what _this_ has revealed.” 

“Funny coincidence, actually, now that you say it.” Wilbur trails off, laughing. “Wilbur Soot, patron god of revolution, theatre and messengers.”

“So, basically, dramatic bitch. Universe-assigned theatre kid. Can we go fuck shit up now?”

Wilbur ruffles Tommy’s hair. “Sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> i am so soft for them i Treasure them so deeply  
> please please leave kudos or comments if you can spare the time! even short comments mean the entire world to me, they make me so happy :] (need me that ao3 dopamine delivery email you know what i mean)
> 
> edit after tommy stream 03/04: i am so pissed. when i tagged this canon divergence i didn't mean it like that
> 
> [tumblr](https://arisfocis.tumblr.com)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/AR1SFOC1S)


End file.
